


Poetic Difficulties

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Collaboration, Illustrated, Inspired by Poetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-25
Updated: 2005-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A park bench, a book of verse, and thou.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetic Difficulties

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally written and posted to LJ in 2005.)

Late spring, in Crowley's opinion, was a good time for slacking off. It made one's job a great deal simpler when everybody was in the mood for shedding clothes and lying around secure in the knowledge that they didn't have to bother with sun block quite _yet_. Still, he felt vaguely obligated to be present for London's first wave of unsuspected dermatological damage. After breakfast, he suggested stroll in the park.  
  
Over the rim of his teacup, Aziraphale glanced guiltily at the book he'd brought from the bedroom. Crowley's shelves weren't as extensively stocked as the ones in the book shop, but Aziraphale had a knack for digging up things that Crowley had never gotten around to reading. He was secretly pleased to know that Sharon Olds was, apparently, a decent poet. He'd bought the volume solely on the basis of its title.*  
  
"I was rather hoping to finish—"  
  
"Bring it along," Crowley said impatiently, frowning as he waved away the dishes. He'd bought this particular set in the early eighties, but he wasn't sure it was _him_ anymore. He opened his mouth to ask Aziraphale's opinion, then thought better of it.  
  
Aziraphale brightened.  
  
"That's a fine idea," he said, and brushed Crowley's elbow on his way to the sink.  
  
Crowley swilled the milky dregs of his tea, talking himself out of suggesting that they ought to go make up the bed before leaving the flat. It never worked anyway.  
  
After several days of rain, the weather had turned strangely warm just in time for the weekend. Aziraphale had slipped into his overcoat, but Crowley insisted that he'd look silly because nobody else would have one. The park seemed lighter and greener than usual, and most of the flowerbeds were in full, startling bloom. Aziraphale hummed approvingly, then glanced back down and flipped to the next page.  
  
"You're going to run into someone," Crowley warned, nudging him urgently to the far side of the path. A woman carrying a small boy passed them, giving him a grateful look, which he was careful not to return.  
  
"Let's sit down, shall we?" Aziraphale suggested when they reached a row of benches close to the water. "It's lovely here."  
  
Crowley shrugged, following him to the nearest bench. It meant that the few bold sunbathers scattered in the grass would be to his back, but as far as he could see, this lot wasn't lively enough to warrant direct supervision. Most of them were alone, which defeated the purpose, though one young lady was near enough to the young man doing his assignments that the whole situation might sort itself out nicely after all.  
  
"Ah. That's better," Aziraphale sighed, settling in, and opened the book again.  
  
"If you say so," Crowley said, casting a surreptitious glance at the next bench over.  
  
One of the advantages of sunglasses was that nobody could usually tell you were watching them. It wouldn't have mattered much, though, because the couple on the bench was very obviously occupied. Crowley stared at his feet, wondering at where some people had no compunctions about putting their hands in public. He crossed his legs and glanced out across the water, squinting at the island. Pelicans, now, _they_ had a sense of decorum—a bit violent, of course, but oddly decorous nonetheless.  
  
"'I am taking the word love away from the object,'" Aziraphale murmured.  
  
"What?" Crowley asked, startled, then let his eyes fall on the book. "Oh. That."  
  
"Really, my dear," Aziraphale said, not bothering to look up. "Don't be so dismissive. It's somewhat profound, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"Whatever," Crowley said, shrugging. He glanced at the couple again, instantly regretting it: the man, who was middle-aged and had thinning hair, had plucked a cherry blossom from one of the overhanging branches and tucked it behind the girl's ear. She was wearing red stockings and smiled at the man as if he'd given her a diamond.  
  
"'We are all students of the object, watching that moment,'" Aziraphale said slowly, with faint wonder, as if tasting each word, "'the person becomes a thing.' Crowley, isn't it—"  
  
"No," Crowley said sharply, folding his arms across his chest. He shot one of the pelicans a long-distance glare, and it began complaining loudly about nothing in particular.  
  
"The book _is_ yours," Aziraphale reminded him, not quite accusingly.  
  
"Not anymore," Crowley said. "I'm letting you steal it."  
  
"Oh, Crowley. That's very thoughtful."  
  
Crowley scowled and looked at the couple again, because that meant he wouldn't have to look at Aziraphale. The whole world was evidently against him, because the girl was leaning forward with her long, bare arms wrapped around the silly man's neck, and they were kissing as if the very act of kissing was about to go extinct.  
  
"'We go to the dark room and see the woman turn in an instant to an object with'—" Aziraphale cut himself off, then paused as if reading the rest silently. "Dear me, that's _dark_."  
  
"As love often is," Crowley said nonchalantly, leaving the couple to their efforts.  
  
"That's cynical of you," Aziraphale said, smoothing the pages flat in his lap. "Typical."  
  
"It's honest, angel," Crowley said, checking up on the pelicans. They weren't fighting.  
  
"I suppose," Aziraphale said. "These verses are certainly, er, honest."  
  
Crowley glanced down quickly.  
  
"Last three lines," he said, and the pelican started squawking again.  
  
"Mm," Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear him frowning. "She doesn't spare one the unpleasant details, certainly."  
  
"I'll take your word for it," Crowley said, absently picking up a leaf that had fallen onto the bench beside him. He twirled it between his fingers, idly considering the opposite page. Sex and butterflies, explicit, _the beauty and silence of the great migrations_.  
  
"Sorry," he said. "Last line, next page."  
  
"Ah," said Aziraphale, scanning it critically, his lips relaxing into a smile. "Yes."  
  
Crowley checked on the couple—lost by now, both of them, leaning on each other as they talked—and stretched, letting his arm settle along the back of the bench. He brushed Aziraphale's shoulder with the side of his thumb, contemplative.  
  
"It's getting a bit chilly, don't you think?"  
  
Aziraphale blinked at him, then said, "I was hoping to finish—"  
  
"We will," Crowley said firmly, and tucked the leaf between the pages like a bookmark before pressing them ( _a winged creature pinned there_ ) closed.

 

  
* _Satan Says_ , by Sharon Olds


End file.
